Published in Overland Issue 225 Summer 2016 · Uncategorized Networking drinks Charlotte Guest ‘You see society through old frames, you are perpetuating that against which you argue,’ says a confident boy with flushed capillaries, exalting in this repartee. ‘No, what I am saying is, the historically oppressed form allegiances based on the common ground of dis- advantage. It’s a well known historical framework through which to consider societal behaviour.’ I hold my gaze. His eyes bulge as he takes a swig from his Old Fashioned, looking down his straight nose at me. ‘Why are we still bandying about old terms? Why do we still talk of race and gender? Have the last fifty years meant nothing?’ I open my mouth and push bubbles out. We are talking underwater, sacks over our heads, like dipped witches. Image: ‘Drinks’ / flickr Read the rest of Overland 225 If you liked this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Charlotte Guest Charlotte Guest is a writer and publishing officer at UWA Publishing. Her debut collection Soap is due out in late 2017. More by Charlotte Guest › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 19 December 202419 December 2024 · Reviews Reading JH Prynne aloud: Poems 2016-2024 John Kinsella Poems 2016-2024 is a massive, vibrant and immersive collation of JH Prynne’s small press publication across this period. Some would call it a late life creative flourish, a glorious coda, but I don’t see it this way. Rather, this is an accumulation of concerns across a lifetime that have both relied on earlier form work and newly "discovered" expressions of genre that require recasting, resaying, and varying. 18 December 202418 December 2024 · Nakata Brophy Prize Dawning in the rivulet of my father’s mourning Yasmin Smith My father floats words down Toonooba each morning. They arrive to me by noon. / Nothing diminishes in his unfolding, not even the currents in midwinter June. / He narrates the sky prehistorically like a cadence cutting him into deluge.
